


I Hope You're Happy Now - the Rashomon Trial

by Phrenotobe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Large amounts of cinematic exaggeration, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrenotobe/pseuds/Phrenotobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Rashomon effect is a term that has been used by a number of different scholars, journalists and film critics to refer to contradictory interpretations of the same events by different persons, a problem that arises in the process of uncovering truth. The phrase derives from the movie Rashomon, where four witness's accounts of a single tale are all different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hope You're Happy Now - the Rashomon Trial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dinostuck (Maiasaura)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiasaura/gifts).



The first time you meet the utterly contemptuous pirate scourge known as mindfang, you are young, and untested, and fail to notice the tells that you will later rely on to find her. She treads on your toe at a social function, and then shortly after blames you for getting underfoot. It’s a social gathering you barely qualify for, a trail of skirts and military jackets and dresses so sharp they were probably designed for warfare, glass chandeliers overhead and shining floors underfoot. It’s a blur, mostly, too long off and too unimportant, gleaming, dangerous, and huge. 

The first time you meet Redglare, she is a small, insignificant speck in a large, significant area, her outfit hemoanonymous and sleek aside from the small teal epaulette on her left shoulder, fine copper braid looped once around the button holding it on and clipped to hang from her pocket. The ballroom seethes with bodies clothed in bright and vibrant red and blue-to-purple hues among the throng of grey-black unfashionables providing the backdrop. She doesn’t look lost - watchful, unsure perhaps, but firm on her feet. You will later write this down in a diary before you forget, and tuck it away to edit later for style. 

The second time you meet the dread sea-pirate mindfang, she is sitting at a bar being incredibly legal in all her current dealings and it burns you to your core. As Alternian justice is absolute, her several corroborating witnesses have helped her leave custody with dropped charges. Overtipping a barman, she slides the rest of her drink over to a friend and stands up to greet you. You note the elongated vowels, dragging out a torturous sentence over the sound of gratingly terrible music, and leave promptly without saying anything.

The second time you see her, little Redglare comes in at the door, her eyebrows lifting at the sound of the four stringed instrument in the corner with fold-box accompaniment and then slipping invisibly under the rims of her coloured lenses as she frowns. She’s a little taller, you think, or perhaps it’s the shoes. Popping red like berries, delightfully up to fashion, and a uniform that makes her stick out like a harpooner sea beast among these salty seatrolls. You slide your drink sideways to somebody you don’t know so they can enjoy it - they’re probably too boozed to care - and greet her with the least friendly words you can think of in a good mood. For her own safety, of course. What would she do without you around here, keeping her out of all your regular haunts and avoiding unnecessary danger to a youthful neophyte. You raise a finger to the barman, asking for another, and grin. It’s a happy memory for you. 

The third time you meet the absurd pirate mindfang, she is holding a sword in one hand and blue stones in the other that hum up in high tones through the bones of your jaw. You have the upper hand on the back of your Lusus, wary but confident until the stones drop onto the deck and summon forth half a dozen ghostly trolls to attack the legs of your steed. Your lusus gains altitude, sending the sails billowing, and Mindfang challenges you to duel on equal terms.   
You refuse, and your lusus comes in to land heavily again, the deck shuddering with the weight. Once she’s back up on her feet, she comes at you with a roar, sword arm held high, and Pyrope opens her mighty jaw to bite a chunk out of her arm, tearing it away as she shrieks. Valiantly but also stupidly, she fights against her capture with her remaining arm. You subdue her and bring her in for trial, a highlight of your career.

The wind billows through the mainsail, sending the other rigging aflutter. Redglare’s dragon circles above, her wings flapping in lazy undulations with the rider astride, one hand on her neck to guide her down to the deck. She lands neatly, toe to heel, while Beautiful, sharp-edged little Redglare commands you to capitulate and turn yourself in. Laughing, you treat softly down the stairs to the main deck and introduce yourself with the doff of a hat and then refuse.  
She unsheathes the sword in her cane and lowers it at an angle, trimming the feather on your hat off by an inch at the tip. Dice in one hand, you drop them to the deck, summoning a dark horde of ghasts to bring the dragon low, stepping back to let them swing their blades into white hide. You do not win that day, but by the empress’s horns, you tried every trick in the book.

The last time you meet Mindfang, she is in court standing trial with one arm and one sword. There are a thousand and then another thousand angry voices chanting your name. Their hands all grasp for you, touching and pulling and pinching and holding your body up for every troll to see the accused. To a single troll, they call for your death, and wind a noose around your neck, swinging you out on a beam to break your-

The last time you meet pretty young Redglare, she is dead. A trail of teal issues from her nose and the corners of her eyes, and you miss her. She was worthy of everything you have ever accused her of - being too cunning, too brave, and far too far over on the right side of the law. You put a kiss to her forehead, a black lipstick smudge, and cut off a lock of hair to keep. In the gap between the rope and the livid red of her collar, you spot a silver chain and pull it out to check the worth of it. A sufferer’s symbol swings from the white metal, and your lips pull up into a victorious smile.   



End file.
